


Every Minute of Every Hour

by distantstarlight



Series: Season to Season [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Humor, Drama & Romance, Insecurity, Jealousy, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV Alternating, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 04:42:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/pseuds/distantstarlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've come back from their vacation. They've got plans. What could possibly go wrong.</p><p>With these two - absolutely anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Early In The Evening

**Author's Note:**

> I may or not have received one or two requests to continue this story. I'm a big soppy romantic so I'm throwing caution to the wind and expanding the series to include another round of the Baker Street Love Birds. I hope you enjoy it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things have been arranged and now it's the very last night.

_He made those eyes. Those John eyes. Those sweet, loving, hopeful don't-kick-me-I'm-an-adorable-hedgehog eyes. Sherlock was lost. He couldn't say no, he just couldn't_. “It won't feel right.” he said softly.

“It's just for a short while, you'll be alright, and it's traditional.” soothed John. Sherlock didn't care about tradition. “Time will fly right on by.”

“ _But John!_ I don't want to be apart! Our wedding is _tomorrow_. I want you _here!_ ” _There. He said it. John's eyes grew bigger, sweeter but now...oh god no...not...no...yes...he was doing it...not...not..._ the lip.

John's lip _didn't_ tremble. Oh no. That would have been too obvious. It _almost_ trembled. It was clearly only by sheer willpower alone that it _didn't_ tremble. The amount of willpower was obvious to Sherlock which is what made this maneuver so _perfect_.

John knew Sherlock knew. He knew Sherlock knew it wasn't real. John _knew_ Sherlock knew that John was deliberately _not_ letting his lip tremble in an _I-almost-trembled_ sort of way. It worked. It _always_ worked. “ _Fuck!_ Fine. I'll do it. I won't be good about it but I'll do it.” He sat down and hung his head. _John was leaving him and Sherlock felt devastated_. John laughed and just kissed him lightly.

“I love you Sherlock, _so_ much. Tomorrow will be here and we'll never have to do this again.” Sherlock raised his head, his eyes red and filled with sorrow. John softened even more. “Do you love me Sherlock? Do you not want to do this?”

There was no other answer to this. “Of course I want to do this. I just don't understand why we need to be separated. I miss you already.” John smiled down at Sherlock, his face wide and happy. _John was cruel. Look at how delighted he was with Sherlock's suffering! Was it because they'd exchanged hearts, was that it? Now Sherlock would be forced to live an eternal existence feeling things and John would be heartless! It wasn't fair. Nothing was fair anymore_. He needed a smoke.

John pulled Sherlock up out of his chair where he'd been hunched. “Come on beautiful. Greg will be here soon to keep you company. Mycroft has promised as a present to come nowhere near you tonight. I'll stay there and we'll meet tomorrow morning, first thing.” John kissed Sherlock tenderly. “I love you Sherlock. You've already made me a very happy man.”

Sherlock couldn't stay upset, not with John giving him that sweet sincere smile, not when he could see those twinkling blue eyes, those smiling lips. _What a nightmare! Sherlock wasn't in control of any of his emotions, not even his despair! What had he done by admitting he was in love with John? It had clearly been a huge mistake, a mistake he was going to exponentially compound tomorrow at 9 am sharp_. Emotionally-backpedaling in between heartbeats Sherlock realized he was getting light-headed.

“I can't breathe.” Sherlock was hyperventilating. John made him sit back down, stroking his back, and counting upward slowly in tandem with the completely falling apart younger man. “John, this is all wrong. It feels _wrong_. It gets _more_ wrong feeling the more it goes on! _We can't do this_.”

John stood up now and was silent. Sherlock stared at his shoes and panted, trying to control something, anything, about himself. “We can't do _what_ Sherlock?”

“ _Any_ of it.” said Sherlock weakly, hanging his head and hiding his face in his hands. _He just couldn't do this, not to John. It wasn't right. It was so wrong. John didn't deserve this. He deserved something better, something greater_. “I won't.”

John was silent but Sherlock could hear him begin to breathe heavily, as if he were struggling to contain it. Dropping his hands Sherlock looked up. John was _furious_. “You _damn_ well _will_. You damn well _will_ go through with this Sherlock Holmes! I am staying at Mycroft's tonight. Greg is staying here with you tonight. Tomorrow morning at 9 am _on the dot_ you and I are going to stand in front of every person we know _and get fucking married!_ There is no changing this Sherlock. It's happening. Now stand up, give me a fucking kiss that lets me know you love me, and say goodbye! My car is waiting.”

Sherlock stood up on wobbly knees. _He knew he wasn't going to get another chance so he made it as good as he could. He wrapped his arms around John, pressed his full lips to John's thin spare mouth and kissed him with all the love in his heart. Sherlock showed John everything there was the show about how much Sherlock loved him, how Sherlock would always love him, and how Sherlock would never love anyone except John for the rest of his days_. John's eyes were shining when the kiss ended. The doctor squeezed his fiancé tight, kissed his cheek once more before picking up a small bag and walking out the door.

“Goodbye John.” said Sherlock after the door downstairs clicked shut. His voice was hollow, heart-broken. Rushing to the window he managed to catch the last glimpse of the car that was driving away the love of his life. Sherlock wanted to tear his hair out. _There was no other choice. He couldn't do this._ Without wasting another minute Sherlock pulled on his Belstaff, wound his scarf around his throat and left 221B with only his wallet. He left his key and his mobile behind.

 


	2. The Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is in a tizzy. He makes a choice that seems right at the time.

Sherlock didn't know where to go. _He needed to think, to formulate a plan. He needed somewhere to be, somewhere anonymous_. He had wandered the streets for about an hour now. _He had no one to turn to. Molly? Forget it. She'd rat him out to John before her front door was closed. Mrs. Hudson? She'd call John even faster than Molly. Mycroft was right out, Greg, completely useless_. Sherlock had no other friends he could rely on. _He was alone. Again_.

He saw a lineup on the street. He recognized this place _The Elements_. It was one of London's hottest gay bars. _How fucking ironic now thanks to John's wonderfully sappy remarks. How perfect._ Striding up to the door past the long lineup Sherlock received glares as the bouncer simply undid the velvet rope and let Sherlock in without hesitation. Sherlock lost himself inside, immediately heading downstairs where the music roared and the lights pulsed. _Here was anonymity_. Checking his coat at the gate Sherlock tucked some money into his pocket, undid some of the buttons on his shirt and made himself at home.

It was loud. He couldn't hear himself think and he was grateful. He went to the bar and ordered the most toxic thing the bartender could recommend. He drank it right down and chased it with a shot of whiskey. He was feeling warm inside already. Sherlock stood there and let the lights wash over him. Deciding there was no better time Sherlock made his way through the press of hard bodies until he got to the dance floor. Watching the others Sherlock stood and swayed for a minute, taking in the music. He didn't recognize the song but Sherlock didn't need to. Finally he picked a rhythm he liked and began to dance.

Sherlock liked to dance like this. He did it on cases when necessary and he was good at it. Of course he was. He was good at everything he did, if he really wanted to be. Dancing was pretty straight-forward anyway. _Move your hips. Move your arms. Try not to kill anyone. Keep in time or don't._ With modern music it didn't seem to matter. _Maybe if Sherlock concentrated on the beat long enough he'd forget he'd left behind the most perfect man in the world. Maybe if Sherlock danced hard enough he'd find a way out of this mess. Maybe._

Maybe he looked strange. He didn't care. His long arms and legs moved around as he lost himself to the music. He felt warmer now. It was getting easier to dance as his body relaxed into it. He began moving more provocatively, enjoying the feel of his body in motion. The lights were mesmerizing and the music was so loud the Sherlock was able to block out everything. He was surrounded by a mass of people, all of them dancing wildly. Some were alone like Sherlock, others in pairs and even more in groups. It was very friendly.

 _Too friendly_. The press of the crowd grew and Sherlock found he had very little room to dance in. He didn't care. He closed his eyes and swayed to the music, slowly extending his long thin arms upward as his hips undulated and twisted. Sherlock let his body move as it would and began to let his mind wander.

It wandered right over to John, now majority owner and resident of Sherlock's mind palace _. John was going to be destroyed tomorrow._ _Sherlock couldn't even imagine how John would feel when he waited for Sherlock at the altar where Sherlock failed to show up. He would be humiliated in front of everyone they'd ever known. John would have to leave London to escape the shame, maybe even England. He'd have to move somewhere, begin all over and it was all Sherlock's fault_.

 _What had he done to his doctor?_ How could Sherlock consider being so completely wrong about this? He changed his mind right then and there. Sherlock _would_ go through with the wedding. John was right. _He was damn well going to walk up that aisle in front of all of creation and declare himself forever and permanently part of Captain John Hamish Watson, MD_.

He saw John. _There on the stairs leading down to the dance floor_. John had tracked him down somehow. John was here to take Sherlock home. The dark haired man's heart swelled with love. _He realized how foolish he had been, how absolutely childish he was acting. He didn't need to run away. This was John, and John was perfect. Sherlock would do this because John wanted it and he wanted it too. Marriage was their destiny_. This is of course where Fate stepped in to smack Sherlock in the head.

A man came up behind Sherlock in a blatant attempt to drunkenly flirt. The stranger pressed up against Sherlock's ass, wrapped his arm around Sherlock's waist and kissed his neck. John's mouth dropped open. _He looked absolutely crushed. From where he was standing it must look like he interrupted Sherlock's attempt to have some kind of fling!_ Without taking another step forward John turned on his heel and raced away before Sherlock had a chance to peel the drunk off his back. “Get off you wanker! You just got me into so much trouble with my fiancé!”

The drunk staggered back. He was younger by several years, obviously high and still interested. “You got a lovely arse baby.” he reached out to double-check his statement. Sherlock spun on his heel, plowed his very large fist into the drunk's face to peel him off before turning back again to face the stairs. Mycroft was standing there and his face was grim. Over the heads of the still dancing masses Sherlock saw his brother's eyes and his heart sank. _John had left and it was all Sherlock's fault_.

Sherlock panicked. He began to push his way through the crowd but he was stopped abruptly. Apparent Drunk Molester had a club buddy. Before Sherlock could react the new man's fist crashed into Sherlock's face, almost knocking Sherlock to the ground. Drunk Buddy was slurring, “He was just being friendly. Didn't need to make 'im bleed.”

Drunk Molester was swaying, his nose bleeding lightly. Sherlock glared at them with one eye, his hand covering the swollen lid of his left eye. “You _idiots!_ My fiancé was watching me! He's just left me because of you! _Why did you do that?_ You've ruined _everything_!”

They both looked guilty but were too drunk to do more than sway in front of Sherlock sheepishly. “Sorry?” tendered Drunk Buddy tentatively. Sherlock could have screamed in frustration. He spared them one last anguished glare before forcing himself through the crowd to find Mycroft waiting for him on the street.

“Little brother, you are a very great fool. What possessed you to cheat on John the night before you married him?” Mycroft was very amused. Sherlock loathed him.

“I wasn't _cheating_ on John you arse! I was just dancing. It was bad timing, that's all. That man, whoever he was, came up to me without any encouragement from me. _It was just bad timing!_ I need to speak with John. Let me talk to him.” Sherlock was tugging at the car door. It was locked. Mycroft looked solemnly at his little brother.

“He's not here Sherlock. John ran off the way you ran off. The only difference is that I have no way to track him. He was not the one I tagged to bolt tonight.” Sherlock felt shame and regret. _He had acted the fool, behaved like a child and now he may have lost John forever. He needed to find his doctor, needed to explain that John hadn't seen what he'd seen. It was all a mistake. A horrible, panic induced, stupid Sherlock grade mistake_.

“I have to fix this Mycroft. _Now_. Will you help me find John or are you just going to stand there and rejoice in my abysmal failure to be worthwhile in any degree.” Sherlock's eyes were burning. _He needed John. He needed to see John_. Sherlock's heart actually physically ached. He felt his mouth pull down as he began to realize that John must feel so betrayed right now, so hurt. Sherlock saw his brother's arm reach out and for a sickening second Sherlock thought Mycroft was going to hug him. Instead Sherlock was handed his mobile. Snatching it from his older brother Sherlock hit the first number listed. It rang and then connected. “John? John please, tell me where you are.”

There was a long silence. “No.” More silence so Sherlock took the opportunity to let his heart bleed. “No I can't Sherlock. After tonight. You said...I saw...I know what you really meant. You...you don't want to marry me. I need to go. Have fun tonight. Use protection.”

John disconnected and wouldn't pick up the phone. Sherlock dialed and dialed and dialed. No answer. Sherlock fell to his knees in the street. He wanted to weep. Sherlock stared dry eyed at his mobile and wanted to disappear forever. _He'd lost John_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh those feels! What will happen next?


	3. After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What in the world is happening with these two! Did they take crazy pills?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've given up sleeping. You're welcome.

John raced down the streets. He just wanted distance between himself and the cheating lying heart breaker at his back _. John hadn't even unpacked his overnight bag and Sherlock was already running around on him! It was one fucking night! How could he? How?_ Flagging a cab John miraculously procured one almost instantly. He climbed in. “Drive in any direction for at least fifteen minutes then find me a pub.”

The driver shrugged and pulled away from the curb. John felt his phone vibrate again. It had been going off over and over again the entire time he'd been running. He glanced over it. Sherlock had called. He hadn't bothered leaving a message. _He was probably too distracted by the strange tongue down his throat._ John wanted to throw up. He couldn't bear the idea of someone else's mouth on Sherlock's. He almost retched. _He needed a drink. Now_. “Never mind the long drive. First pub you come to mate.”

Two minutes later the driver left John in front of a small pub. It had the requisite stained-glass windows and sturdy door. He went in, found himself a dark corner at the end of the bar and began to drink. He wasn't proud of his choice. His family suffered from alcoholism. This was risky but right now all John wanted to do was drown his sorrow in as much alcohol his body could tolerate.

John downed two good-sized shots of whiskey before he could even begin to deal with everything. He couldn't stop going over what he saw. Sherlock had seemed so happy to see him. His face had actually lit up. Sherlock had smiled that little smile, that real one that only John ever got to see.

Then the man whore had rubbed his cheap body all over Sherlock's and _kissed_ him! _How many times had he had his lips on Sherlock's by the time John caught them? How did Sherlock like the taste of the new man? Was it good for him?_ The doctor had a sudden visual of the concept. He felt ill again and called for another shot. It burned on the way down. John turned on his seat and looked over the other patrons glumly. They were cheerful. John hated that. There was a lot of women. Pretty ones. _Of course there were. Now that John was in a committed gay relationship of course he'd finally come across a pub jam-packed with pretty birds of every description_.

The image of Sherlock's face at the club floated across his mind. He could see the flashing colored lights play across his pale skin. _His dark curls looked like they had been glittering in the dimness, his pale skin had shone. He had been so beautiful and John felt his heart shatter all over again when he recalled that strange man's lips press to Sherlock's long beautiful neck._ John had been the only one to kiss that neck until tonight. Now that neck was open for business. _Why? Why had Sherlock done it? Curiosity? Had he done it in the name of science, to get a base line so he could understand how many different ways John wasn't measuring up? That man had been huge. Taller than Sherlock. Was that it? John wasn't enough for Sherlock? Had he been feeling let down all this time?_

A group of women tittered their way to the bar in a big flock. They all smiled warmly at John, a couple of them even boldly winking at him. He raised his glass as a salute but didn't flirt back. He had things to deal with. He turned his back to them and nursed the beer he had finally ordered. He wanted to be drunk but he didn't exactly want to pass out in an alley. His phone vibrated again. John ignored it.

He turned back around and saw two of the women standing right next to him. They both had large very exposed breasts, bright red lips and equally devilish grins. “Listen bloke. We don't know you and you don't know us but we're kind of collectors. We collect kisses. With a picture. For our club. Can my girlfriend give you a nice big kiss, just for the book?” She held up an impressively heavy photo album.

John didn't like this idea. Sure Sherlock had cheated on him but that didn't seem like a reason for John to _revenge_ cheat. _Even if he wasn't enough for Sherlock he still had his pride. He didn't cheat_. The girls leaned in, sweetening the deal by letting John have the opportunity to stare down their ample cleavages. They smelled delicate, flowery. They looked soft and rounded. _Too soft. Too round_.

John groaned inside his head. These women weren't attractive to him at all. Breasts he would have once found nigh irresistible were now looking less-than-appealing. John found himself suddenly missing Sherlock's narrow bony chest, his flared ribs and the way you could almost see his heart beat through his ribcage. Sherlock didn't have an extra gram of flesh on him. He was spare. _The minimum amount of Sherlock required for the complete set._

All of Sherlock's parts were standing in the pub door. He looked furious. John gaped. _How had Sherlock found him? John didn't even know where he was. What right did Sherlock have to look jealous? His shirt buttons were half undone! Had he made out with the man whore? Sherlock was a lying, cheating TART that's what he was!_ John didn't hesitate. He reached for the bird closest to him and while her girlfriend giggled John kissed the woman. Her mouth felt alien and unwelcome against his and John almost gagged. As soon as the camera flashed he pushed away.

John looked at the door in triumph. Sherlock wasn't there. No. Sherlock had teleported through the pub and was now standing directly beside John, livid with rage. Sherlock bit his words out, “So this is why you needed to be away from me tonight! To get a leg over with some _woman?_ You are a _hypocrite_ John Watson!”

 _Sherlock called him what?_ John stood up, every prickly inch of him filled with rage. “How long have you been running around on me Sherlock? How many nights have you been giving yourself away to anyone who looks interested? That big oaf a regular of yours? Someone to scratch the itch every night I'm at work?” The women looked shocked and concerned but not so much that they stayed. Deciding away was a good place to visit they went there and left the two men glaring at each other. The bartender edged closer as did two rather burly men who had been standing near the exit.

Sherlock was almost spitting with fury. “How _dare_ you accuse me like that? I wasn't the one who stuck his tongue down some woman's throat for spite! I..I..wasn't..” Sherlock's mouth pressed into a thin line. “I hate you!”

“I hate you more!” John was screeching in a rather unmanly sort of way, both men attacked, or would have had the bouncers not immediately jumped in to separate them enough to throw them both out different exits. John was tossed out onto the street and Sherlock was thrown out into the alley. Each man raced toward the opposite direction, fury driving them. Of course since they both went at the same time John arrived to a very empty alley while Sherlock scoured an equally John-free street.

John didn't know this but both he and Sherlock made the same realization at the same time. Sherlock whirled on his heel, ready to run back to the alley to kick John's cheating ass. Mycroft stood in his way, brolly in hand, his lips pinched disapprovingly. “You _dishonor_ our family name little brother. _Brawling_ in the streets? Public _drunkenness_?” A long black car slid into place beside the furious Holmes. “Get in Sherlock, or someone will _assist_.”

John turned to run back to the street. He only took half a step when he crashed into something, something that swore and landed right in the center of the alley clutching its chest. _Greg._ “Lestrade, what the fuck are you doing here? Get out of my way. I have a huge arse to kick.”

“He's not there anymore. Myc took him. Come on John, back to Baker Street.” Greg got himself up and managed to get John to follow him back to his car. John complained the entire time.

“He's selfish, thoughtless, heartless, dishonest... _A CHEATING FUCKING LIAR THAT'S WHAT SHERLOCK HOLMES IS!!!_ ” Greg just rolled down the windows as he drove and let John shout to the streets as he drove him home.

Sherlock was steaming inside Mycroft's limo. “He's literally _low!_ He's a low, _vile_ , contemptible, self-deluding, woman-chasing _hobbit_! He was _kissing women_ Mycroft! There. At the bar. In the open. Right in front of me. With his _lips_! _ON PURPOSE! HE'S VILE. A VILE CHEATING WOMAN-CHASING PRAT_. Wait, I said woman-chasing. He’s a _floozy_! He's always going on about rules and conduct! Always always _always_ , well, now I know the _truth_. Now I know _John Watson_ will do whatever he likes, rules or no. _HE'S A LIAR! A CHEAT!_ ”

Mycroft rolled up the windows, containing Sherlock's enraged shouts while they drove back to his town-house. Sherlock suddenly dug through the many pockets and hiding spots in the limo. When he came across a bottle of very expensive scotch that was normally served in very small glasses Mycroft had to battle his brother to remove it from his mouth where Sherlock was chugging the rare liquid fearsomely fast. “Now brother, this helps nothing.”

“ _FUCK YOU WITH THE HELPING_! If you hadn't made _Victor_ know about us none of this would have happened. We'd still be working cases together. We were _happy_ before this. It wasn't perfect but what is it now? It's _ruined_ , that's what it is. _That's what you wanted wasn't it Mycroft_? To ruin it? Well done brother. Well done.” Sherlock was bitter and quick. He snatched the bottle back from Mycroft and got two more long pulls off of it before Mycroft got it back and hid it again.

Greg listened to John complain about Sherlock the entire ride. He listened to John complain with each step he took up to 221B. He sat on the sofa while John paced back and forth shouting to the walls about Sherlock's many, many difficult qualities. “His suit is _bespoke_. Where are the scissors?” John staggered to the kitchen and pawed through the drawer. Greg slipped into Sherlock's room, grabbed the garment bag and hid it in John's room. By the time John found his shears Greg was sitting back on the sofa.

John stormed into Sherlock's room. Greg could hear him swearing. “Where is it? Threw it away did he! Probably in a bin somewhere between here and wherever he's been giving himself away. What a joke I am. Well the joke's on him. I found his whiskey.” Greg jumped up and got to John but not before John managed to swallow down nearly half of a hip flask's worth of the stuff. Ten minutes later and John was reeling drunk. “Gave him everthin' dinnit I. Me. Evverthin. Not 'nuff for 'im. Stupid wanker. Greedy ars...arse...arsehole! M'not even fucking gay am I but still not enough for _SHERLOCK FUCKING STILL WON'T TELL ME 'IS WHOLE NAME HOLMES!_ ” a small suppressed sob worried Greg. “I hate 'im. He don't want to get married to me.”

“You don't hate Sherlock. He wants to marry you.” said Greg softly.

“ _I do_. He _doesn't_! He's an arse. A big tall giraffe arse. E ponces round don't 'e. Bastard. I do. I hates 'im.” John slumped down onto the sofa holding his head. Greg became very concerned. _Angry_ John was one thing but Greg was becoming increasingly concerned that _mad_ John was about to become _sad_ John. The DI wasn't sure if he was prepared for man-tears. When John did speak his voice was indeed thick with them but he kept his head down and his face covered. His words, slurred just moments ago were clear but anguished. “He's tall and beautiful. He's so smart and clever. He's like an angel, that's what I always thought. He's pure inside. Huge. Like a star, burning with curiosity. How can you keep something like that? You can't, can you. Stars burn too bright to hold. I can't hold him. I'm not big enough, not big enough to hold my giant star-angel. He's my soul. I _love_ him.”

Greg had never been so relieved to watch someone pass out before. The DI helped lay John down on the sofa, pulling off his shoes and removing his coat. He tucked their Union Jack pillow under the small blond head and draped the blanket from Sherlock's chair over the limp sleeping body. John's unhappy face grew lax in sleep and Greg looked down at him fondly. Pulling out his mobile he sent a quick text.

Sherlock woke in Mycroft's guest room with an aching head and a broken heart. His face felt bumpy and he realized that somehow or other he'd gotten his hands on one of John's jumpers, using it like a pillow instead of the fine goose down ones Mycroft had provided. The dark haired man lay back on Mycroft's best guest sheets and realized he _reeked_. He smelled of sweaty night clubs and filthy alleys. His tongue felt furry and twice it's normal size and he was having difficulty seeing out of his left eye. Sherlock groaned when the previous night rushed back to him. _This was why his heart hurt. It was over with John_.

Mycroft, unlike Greg, had allowed Sherlock to drink himself into a stupor after removing the more difficult to replace bottles from the cabinet. Sherlock had ranted and railed against the doctor, promising to hunt down and destroy the women he'd kissed in the bar, the cab driver that brought John there, and anyone else who had contributed to the wreck of his current life. His eye had swollen up and he clutched the icepack Mycroft had given him like a shield. Sherlock had called John a hobbit on six separate occasions, and a hedgehog twice, before degenerating into a long list of John's wonderful qualities. He described John's beauties for almost half-an-hour before making his way back to the kiss that ended the world. Mycroft didn't point out that everything happened because Sherlock himself had started it. Sherlock also didn't bring it up. He was too busy being righteously angry at John's infidelity.

Sherlock made himself sit up. He was still in his filthy clothes. There was a tall glass of water by his bed and two small pills. He took them. Staggering to the en suite Sherlock used the facilities and tried not to move too fast. _Oh his head hurt_. He needed a shower.

Someone had unpacked John's bag because his bathroom kit was waiting by the sink. Sherlock opened it up. Inside were John's straight-razor, his toothbrush, shampoo, and even his soap. All of them were made of inexpensive but dependable brands, unlike the high-end products that Sherlock used, all specially formulated for him. Sherlock decided to use them.

Shedding his alarmingly rank clothing Sherlock got himself into the shower. The hot water felt good and he let it wash over him until his head didn't hurt so much. Reaching for John's shampoo Sherlock poured a healthy amount into his hand. It foamed up pleasantly and suddenly the shower smelled like John. Sherlock's heart cracked just a little more. He rinsed and reached for John's razor. Mycroft had an extendible mirror in the guest shower. Applying a thick layer of foam to his face Sherlock shaved himself with great care.

After he was done he washed up with John's bar of soap. _Would he ever feel John's hands on his body ever again? Was Sherlock doomed to die alone and untouched some time at the end of a span of empty years without John? What would their guests say when neither man showed up today? No one would be left at the altar but they were certainly talk_. Sherlock steeled himself. _No. Even if everything went as wrong as it could Sherlock Holmes was not going to be the one who failed to show up at the wedding. John was probably already moving out of 221B. Fuck him then. Sherlock was a gentleman. A Holmes. He'd made plans to meet at 9 am. If John could roll off his latest female companion long enough maybe he'd remember he had an early appointment_.

For a minute his heart broke anew. _John_. Indignation resurged a moment later. _Who did he think he was? Just because John was a soldier did that make him better than Sherlock somehow? Oh brave John was used to going to war, he was literally a warrior. Well Sherlock could be brave too. John may have left Sherlock but Sherlock Holmes wasn't going to be the name everyone whispered after today. Oh no. Let the busybodies whisper John Hamish Watson when they spoke of the wedding today. Captain Doctor I-Need-A-Woman Watson. Sherlock was just as brave, no. Sherlock was_ braver _than John. He was a Holmes after all. He had dignity, history, pride. Sherlock Holmes was going to get himself ready, get to the car and show up for his fucking wedding at 9 am sharp, or there would be hell to pay_.

John was sore from head to toe. Pills, water and coffee hadn't helped. He was currently standing in the shower trying not to flinch. _John felt awful. He'd lost Sherlock. Today was going to be the most painful day ever as John Hamish Watson, ex-soldier, and part-time doctor stood beside the registrar and failed to get married_.

John reached for his shampoo. It wasn't there. With a sinking heart John remembered he'd left all his things at Mycroft's. _His suit. His bathroom kit. His razor._ John looked around. Sherlock's stuff was all here, including that ridiculous razor with _four_ blades on it. A man should need just one! John used it. He then used Sherlock's custom-blend shampoo, pouring a massively wasteful handful of the stuff on purpose. It tingled, and the shower suddenly smelled like eucalyptus with a hint of Sherlock. Choking back whatever sound was trying to get out of his throat John washed his hair resolutely before reaching for Sherlock's soap. _It was milled, expensive, and smelled almost like his lost lover._ John had to brace himself against the shower wall for a minute. When he'd collected himself he washed all over with intense thoroughness. _This might be the last time he ever came in contact with anything Sherlock_.

Greg was in the kitchen when John got out of the shower. He was immaculately dressed in a dark suit. “I brought your suit.” was all the silver-haired man said as he made tea. John nodded and sat at the table silently. He drank the tea Greg gave him, ate the toast, and even got his egg down. When he was done he stared grimly at the crumbs. With resolution he stood, turned on his heel and went to get into uniform. _It was time for the battlefield_.

Sherlock stood in front of Mycroft wearing a bathrobe from the guest room, his face pale and drawn, the bruise on his eye red, and his hair poofed out in a gigantic halo. _John's shampoo probably hadn't been a good choice_. “Little brother.” tched Mycroft reprovingly. He led a quiet Sherlock back to his personal bathroom, sat him on a bench, and looked down thoughtfully. Running his long fingers under the taps he carefully moistened Sherlock's rebellious hair. Cautious application of an assortment of products teamed with a surprising quantity of combs and brushes eventually had Sherlock's hair arranged in artful curls that bounced appealingly when he moved. Another few minutes and Mycroft managed to conceal the red of the bruise as well. Sherlock looked almost normal. “Greg brought your suit earlier. Get dressed.”

“Thank you brother.” Sherlock got up and glided away, wrapping himself in the dignity worthy of a Holmes. _Today he would be upright and steady. Today he would face the pitying faces as he was scorned in front of the entire world. Sherlock would suffer the humiliation of being left standing alone at the altar as he rightly deserved and everyone would hiss the name John Watson_.


	4. The Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are FURIOUS with one another! Who's the bigger man here?
> 
> DANGER! DANGER WILL ROBINSON!!!!!!  
> * * * Itty bitty almost unnoticeable Series Three final episode spoiler alert. Maybe wait till later to read this chapter if you haven't seen the last episode.

John stood there in front of the rows upon rows of people, stiff lipped and expressionless. His back was ramrod straight, and he refused to meet anyone's eye. People had tried to talk to him but Greg had shooed them all away, leaving John standing rigidly by himself. John's head still hurt and he was running on empty when it came to patience.

John refused to look at Mrs. Hudson. He absolutely would not look at Molly Hooper. He didn't turn to check but he was pretty sure Mike Stamford was a few rows back and on his way in John was pretty sure he'd even spotted some of his old army mates. John wondered how long he would have to stand here alone before everyone decided he'd been humiliated enough and let him crawl away to tend the gaping hole in his chest where his heart used to be. John stood a little taller, not giving in to the judgments coming his way. _He was a soldier. A captain. Sherlock Holmes was an aristocratic shit and he wasn't going to get the best of John Watson. No sir_.

Sherlock peered out the waiting room where he was sequestered with Mycroft. _Oh this was rich. John had worn his tie pin, the one he'd gotten from Sherlock for his first birthday at Baker Street. What was John trying to prove? Dammit he looked good in that suit. Why had they chosen matching outfits? Who did that? Why was John's hair so shiny?_ It was almost glowing in the morning light. _Had John picked up another woman after they'd been separated? Had she fixed his hair this morning, a mockery of wedded-bliss? Probably_. Sherlock sneered.

In his peripheral vision John could see the curtains to the waiting room twitch over and over again. _Did that mean Sherlock was here? Why? What was he trying to prove? Was he showing John up? Trying to appear like he was some kind of expectant groom actually looking forward to this failure of a marriage?_ John winced but admitted it to himself. _It was a failure and they hadn't even gotten married yet, wouldn't be getting married yet._ John gritted his teeth. _They'd have to drag his corpse from the property before he walked out before Sherlock. John didn't know what Sherlock was up to but John's feet were set, his shoulders were squared and he was ready. Let Holmes bring it on. John could take it._

Sherlock sniffed in disdain. _John was clearly bracing himself_. Sherlock could see the pep-talk John was giving himself. _Probably congratulating himself for a long successful night of shagging one trollop after another while Sherlock was trying to kill himself one organ at a time via alcohol. What a little bastard_. John's eyes were puffy. Sherlock calculated quickly. His own hangover was only just beginning to subside. _Was John hung-over? The physical evidence suggested that yes, yes he was. Good. Hopefully the sunlight was killing him through dehydration_.

A very papery looking gentleman in black was now standing in beside John. Greg appeared and the three of them spoke for a minute. John scowled and nodded tersely. Greg stepped back, John stood tall again and the music began to play. _It was time_.

Mycroft materialized next to Sherlock. “ _Dignity_ little brother.” was all he said. Sherlock drew in a deep breath, smoothed his features until they were blank and exited the room with his brother at his side. Everyone turned to look. Smiles abounded. _Sherlock loathed everyone. How dare they smile at his shame? Look at John instead! He was the one who deserved their mocking, their cow-like approval. John was challenging Sherlock by standing there. He thought Sherlock would bolt, run away. Well Sherlock wasn't about to! John could run if he chose. Sherlock would cut out his own eyes before he broke. Fuck John!_

Using every skill at his disposal Sherlock walked up the aisle. He didn't just walk, he _sizzled_. His foot prints nearly caught flame. Let John _see_ what he was giving up, what he had _questioned_ so easily. Let him see what he would _never_ have, not _ever_ again. _Sherlock Holmes was a fucking prize and John would never find another as amazing as him. Sherlock hoped John's heart was bleeding inside_.

It was _. It was so unfair. Sherlock was gorgeous_. John's mouth went dry and he was super-conscious of his height, his bland coloring, his _boring everything_. He'd tried to add a little flair but he didn't own much. The only piece he had that was remotely appropriate was the tiny tie pin Sherlock himself had given John so long ago. John didn't even really wear ties so he hadn't been sure what Sherlock had been thinking. He felt stupid now. _Why had they chosen to wear matching suits? That was the dumbest choice ever. What were they going to do with a pair of matching bespoke suits after today?_

John would probably get buried in his. _He could see it now. John planned to die of loneliness somewhere in the country. Maybe Sussex where Sherlock had always dreamed of retiring. Yes. That's what John would do. He'd move to Sussex, die there and ruin the entire place for Sherlock forever. Then Sherlock would have to stay in London or retire with Mycroft. Let's see how much Sherlock enjoyed keeping bees with his older brother!_ Thus resolved John squared his shoulders once again. Sherlock had arrived.

Sherlock kept his eyes on the old man in front of him. He was droning on about god and love. It was _interminable_. John stood fast and Sherlock was frozen to the spot. Each man waited for the other's nerve to break, to just walk away and leave the other. Both resolved yet again to die before giving that satisfaction to their traitorous other half. At long last the questions began.

The funereal old man looked over the gathering, “First, I am required to ask anyone present who knows a reason why these persons may not lawfully marry, to declare it now.”

There was a large amount of throat clearing from all over and then a pointed silence. The man continued, “The vows you are about to take are to be made in the presence of God, who is judge of all and knows all the secrets of our hearts; therefore if either of you knows a reason why you may not lawfully marry, you _must_ declare it now.”

For the first time their eyes met. Each dared the other to crack. Two pairs of lips pressed tightly shut and two sets of heads shook stubbornly. _No. They weren't going to shame themselves by spelling out the failure of the other first._ They glared at one another and willed the other to speak. The man, taking their extended silence as a _no_ , continued. “ _John_ , will you take _Sherlock_ to be your husband? Will you _love_ him, _comfort_ him, _honor_ and _protect_ him, and, forsaking all others, be _faithful_ to him as long as you both shall live?”

John didn't hesitate. _This was the promise he'd been made to make. Damn Sherlock for making it empty and meaningless. Still, John knew he'd never love another the way he loved Sherlock and even if this was the biggest lie he ever participated in John answered_. In spite of his feelings John's voice was filled with skeptical daring as he promised, “ _I_ will.”

Sherlock suppressed a sneer with the greatest of efforts. He'd heard the challenge in John's answer. _Sure John would. He had all but shouted that Sherlock would not!_ “ _Sherlock_ , will you take _John_ to be your husband? Will you _love_ him, _comfort_ him, _honor_ and _protect_ him, and, forsaking all others, be _faithful_ to him as long as you both shall live?” Sherlock's answer was a snarl of affirmation and the old man continued, completely oblivious to the battle of wills in front of him.

_It just wouldn't end. The old man went on and on. He spoke more about love, commitment, fidelity, partnership and everything they clearly lacked._ Sherlock's back felt like stone and he was beginning to cramp from holding himself so stiffly. _John smelled so good_. Sherlock couldn't help noticing. He almost missed his cue. Turning to John Sherlock reached out ice-cold fingers and took John's right hand in his. John may not love him anymore but Sherlock _still_ loved John. He'd never get a chance to speak these words _ever_ again. _There was no one in the world he'd choose after knowing John._ Throwing caution to the wind Sherlock spoke, every syllable heavy with emotion. “I, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, take you, John Hamish Watson, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward; for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part.”

John stared up at his lover. Sherlock's voice throbbed with feeling. John's throat felt closed. His eyes burned and suddenly it was very warm. Sherlock's slim fingers slipped from his. It was John's turn. Reaching back toward the taller man John took up Sherlock's slim right hand in his. Looking Sherlock directly in his ever-changing eyes John began. “I, John Hamish Watson, take you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward; for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part.”

The words had started off stiff and cold. As each one passed his lips John felt the love he had for this insane man in front of him. _How many years had John ached to have Sherlock? How many lonely nights had he lain awake worried for his friend, wanting nothing more than a chance to comfort him when he was on edge? What would John have given then to have Sherlock? Anything. He would have suffered any privation, endured any humiliation. Now was his chance to be a part of this miracle of mankind._ By the time John was finished speaking his fingers were curled tightly around Sherlock's. Their eyes were red and both men had their most stoic faces on as they struggled to contain the emotional storm inside each of them.

Sherlock wasn't listening to the old man anymore _. He was drowning in John's eyes, lost in the love he felt for his brave soldier, the love he saw returned in those magical blue eyes._ When it came time Sherlock spoke in a clear steady voice that carried all the way to the back row of the congregation. He took up John's left hand and slid on John's half of the puzzle ring, “John Hamish Watson, I give you this ring as a sign of our marriage. With my body I honor you, all that I am I give to you, and all that I have I share with you.”

John's steady hands took Sherlock's left hand up. Sherlock watched as those clever capable fingers slid the wedding band onto his long slim finger. Their eyes met and a spark almost sizzled between them. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I give you this ring as a sign of our marriage. With my body I honor you, all that I am I give to you, and all that I have I share with you.”

_The rest of the world disappeared_. The old man kept speaking earnestly. He addressed Sherlock or John one after another, sometimes speaking to the congregation. Sherlock and John didn't notice. They simply stood there, hands clasped, rings glinting in the morning sun, love shining from both their eyes. _Sherlock's look told John that he'd never let go. John's expression told Sherlock he'd never stop holding on._ Their hands tightened together until their knuckles turned white. When they were finally given permission both men moved toward each other as if they were magnets.

_Maybe they were. Maybe their norths and souths needed each other. Maybe they were meant to be drawn together helplessly when things were right, to shove each other ruthlessly away when things were wrong. Maybe they'd never be able to function as separate entities ever again because magnets or not they were now one person. Here in London in front of family, friends, witnesses from everywhere John and Sherlock had become one man, a single functioning organism made of independent parts that could not survive without the other._ Their lips met.

In that singular moment both men felt it. Their hearts and souls wound together inextricably. The love knot between them wasn't simple. It was a messy tangle of threads made up of uncertainty and doubt, fear and anxiety. It was twisted and inexpertly fitted together but somehow all the gaps were filled and each strand tethered them tighter together. John could never leave Sherlock and Sherlock could never walk away from John. Even if their bodies were far apart all the important things about them would be together. They'd never again be just John or just Sherlock. They'd never again be able to walk the world alone. They'd never again want to. Now they were perfect. Now they were made right. They were married.

 

Whoever took this screenshot and posted it gets a _distantstarlight Award_ for perfect timing. Their faces are exactly what I was imagining when I thought of this scene. I worked the outfits in because I've been told I have dreadful personal taste in clothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! You think it's over? It's not over. Sure they're married but the day isn't even DONE yet. Think about that for a second.
> 
>  
> 
> The vows are pretty standard in that they're the first set of British wedding vows I came across while working the google on the interweb machine. I had to adjust the delivery and pace somewhat to accommodate a few issues like the spoiler alert. Unless you've watched Series 3 you don't know one tiny piece of possibly irrelevant but still important information. I'll let you guess which bit.


	5. Reception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one was more surprised than them! They actually did it. They got married!

Sherlock was in a daze. _They were married_. He and John had actually gone through with the vows and were now _legally_ married. _Certainly they'd done it while furious with one another, the words a dare, a challenge to the other. They'd said them anyway and meant them_. The tall pale man wanted to sit down somewhere, hold John, and let the feeling of security that had begun to fill him complete its journey. Sherlock felt disconnected from John right now. _Things still weren't right between them. Sherlock felt the desperate need to apologize, to explain himself, to let John know he hadn't meant to hurt him. Sherlock had seen the love in John's eyes as they'd spoken their vows, observed all the nuances of John's body that told Sherlock the older man had meant every word. They needed to talk and now_.

Photographs were required. Greg appeared by their sides, his best man duties urging him to make sure both John and Sherlock spent the next ninety minutes standing in front of a lit backdrop. They were posed dozens of different ways and by the time they were done John was positive they had a photograph of them with every single man, woman, child and dubious entity (Anthea) they had ever known. They clutched their hands tight together, their grip never lessening though not one word passed between them.

It was hot in the room. The press of people made John uncomfortably warm. He was conscious of how sweaty his palm was as he gripped Sherlock's long cool fingers. His heart was racing and he felt mildly panicked. _There were too many people and all John wanted was ten minutes alone somewhere private with Sherlock so he could apologize for leaving him alone the night before their wedding, for not listening to him when Sherlock called, and for being so completely slow-witted that he didn't even notice his best friend having a meltdown right in front of him. John was upset with himself, upset with Sherlock, upset with everything. They needed to talk, and now_.

Turning to one another both John and Sherlock opened their mouths to speak. Seeing the other about to say something both men closed their mouths and waited. There was a lot of silence. John tried to speak again but Greg showed up to get them to the main table. Sherlock and John went in silence, hands still clasped damply together.

 _Speeches_. Everyone had something to say about the newlyweds. A meal was served but neither man had a single bite. They sat there in wedding purgatory enduring tale after tale of their own exploits as seen through the eyes of their acquaintances. It was ceaseless! _Everyone_ had something to share. Sherlock and John let go of one another as they were toasted again and again, raising their glasses to the crowd before having a sip. When the speaker was finally finished and was busy passing the wireless microphone to another laughing guest the men, still not looking at one another, would lace their fingers back together and sit back to continue listening politely.

Sherlock was slowly losing his mind. _The story tellers were wretched. They missed all the facts about their work and kept pointing out all the irrelevant parts. What did his coat have to do with cases? Sherlock did not swoop! His coat was long because he was a tall man and his back got cold easily. It wasn't his fault it flared out when he turned around! People were making it sound like he did that on purpose! He couldn't help his cheekbones and his neck got cold easily as well which is why he always turned his collar up and wore a scarf. There was nothing mysterious about that!_

John was getting irritated _. From the sounds of the stories John came running like a good dog whenever Sherlock called for him, guns blazing and fists flying. That's not how it went at all! Also, John's jumpers were perfectly fine. He'd owned most of them for years and Sherlock had several favorites he liked John to wear. He was a doctor_ and _a soldier as well but no one seemed to mention that very much, going on about his blog as if that were the most important thing John had ever done. He'd saved lives for crying out loud! He had almost died for his country! Did that impress no one?_

Sherlock was having a hard time remaining polite _. He didn't want to make a scene at his own wedding reception but these people were cattle! Did they get all their information from gossip magazines? How could they know about the work Sherlock and John did without knowing John was a_ Captain _in the army, that he had been awarded medals for bravery or that he was endlessly self-sacrificing? Instead the mindless chatterers were droning on about John's jumpers which Sherlock quite liked. The way they described John's participation in cases! That's not how it worked between them at all! John was his partner! His best friend! Sherlock knew he could still work cases without John but it would take forever. John was essential, mandatory, a permanent requirement for Sherlock's cognitive processes. Did no one see that? Only John truly understood how Sherlock worked even if he didn't follow along with everything Sherlock knew. John was amazing_.

John was shifting in his seat. It took everything in him to not grab the microphone from the latest Holmes cousin who was twitting on about Sherlock. _It was like they didn't even know the man! Sherlock's distant family kept telling anecdotal tales of Sherlock's strange experiments, his odd comments, or his lonely lifestyle. Why wasn't anyone mentioning the fact that Sherlock was an unparalleled genius, that he was relentless in his pursuit of the truth, that he solved crimes because he believed people deserved to know what really happened when something unexplainable occurred. He wasn't an openly sentimental man but despite the Holmes motto Sherlock was a caring and passionate person_.

Sherlock's thumb began to stroke the back of John's hand gently. John's fingers squeezed and released Sherlock's over and over again, both men were calmed by the tender actions of their lover. Sherlock was feeling more displaced than usual. He needed comfort and there was only one person who could provide it. Daring greatly Sherlock leaned over and kissed John's mouth softly, just a short little kiss between new husbands. Casually he sat back in his seat and continued listening to the stuttering pace of the speakers as they giggled and hopscotched their way back and forth through their humorous recitations. A couple of minutes later John lifted Sherlock's hand and pressed another little kiss to it, both men smiled and sat quietly side-by-side.

Sherlock was intensely aware of John sitting by his side. The doctor's hand in his was comfortingly warm as it always was, the heat soaking into Sherlock's cool body like water soaking into desert sands. John's hand was dark compared to Sherlock's. The still present shadow of a tan left from John's army days made his skin a faint honey-tone next to the pure cream of Sherlock. Sherlock loved John's hands. _He did things with them, clever things_. Sherlock could feel the calluses on John's palm from his gun. _Wonderful, beautiful, secretly dangerous John_. Sherlock felt flushed.

Sherlock's thumb continued to stroke over the back of John's hand and it was making the doctor crazy. Each tender sweep made John aware of how long and hard Sherlock's fingers were. _Sherlock's thumb was broad and large compared to John's much smaller hand. Everything about Sherlock was big compared to John. He was taller. His legs were longer. His feet were bigger. His....well....this wasn't the time to think of that. Not in front of all these people_. John could feel the string toughened tips of Sherlock's fingers, the calluses from his violin rubbing ever so gently against the flesh of John's hand.

Sherlock was paying more attention to the speeches now. He'd never really thought about the work he and John had done this way. _Everyone seemed to view their work as a grand adventure, a game both men played. It wasn't a game!_ Sherlock began to realize how much John had given up to dedicate himself to Sherlock, and he felt worse than ever about trying to run. _Sherlock was a selfish arse and John deserved better!_ Sherlock needed to explain himself to his husband before things got out of hand again.

John was castigating himself. _It was more obvious than ever that Sherlock had lived a long and very lonely life! Even his own blood had rejected him as too strange, too difficult to deal with. That he had met someone and had gotten married was a fact each and every member of Sherlock's vast family had pointed out and remarked on as being very unexpected._ John felt terrible _. How incredibly dense it had been of him to demand Sherlock spend their last night as bachelors without him. Why had that seemed like such a good idea? Why in the world had John decided to stay with_ Mycroft _of all people instead of just remaining at 221 B with the man he loved? Instead he'd basically forced Sherlock to endure yet more loneliness and compounded it by not taking Sherlock's pleas to stay together seriously. John needed to speak to Sherlock, to tell him how sorry he was and that he hadn't meant for Sherlock to feel abandoned_.

Sherlock was feeling warm. Some of John's veteran friends had designated a speaker for their table and the man was now sharing short clipped stories about John. His facts were being fed quietly to him by a group of men who all looked grizzled, fried from the sun, and ready to kill in a heartbeat. All of them nodded respectfully toward John. Sherlock was proud now _. Finally_ guests were looking at John with new eyes, seeing the nobility of John's true character as they were told about the lives he had saved, the risks he had taken to save them and the relentless will he had to keep going. _John was a rock. He was shelter in battle. He was the eye of the storm and these men were alive because of it_. Sherlock sat tall, smiling down at John, his eyes warm and pleased.

John was feeling better. A small group of very dignified people in awkward suits, and a full set of very thick glasses were speaking of a paper Sherlock had written many years ago. The content of the paper had been posted online through Sherlock's personal page, and it had caught the interest of the group of people. It wasn't the content of the paper, it was the line of thinking it had demonstrated. _Sherlock's mind was a wonder. He absorbed layers of information with every glance, was able to filter out anything that was irrelevant to his line of inquiry and see the truth of the matter_. This excited the group very much as they labored over vast data sets to comprehend the mysteries of the universe. Now everyone stared at Sherlock with new eyes as the scientists from CERN lauded Sherlock's mind. John puffed up _. His Sherlock was brilliant!_

Mrs. Hudson got up. She told everyone about how she had met a very young Sherlock so long ago, further back than anyone at all, even Lestrade. She explained that without any encouragement Sherlock had seen the truth of Mrs. Hudson's life as it was at the time and had taken steps to ensure her safety. _He hadn't asked. He never mentioned it. He never once made mention of payment for his services. Sherlock had saved Mrs. Hudson because she had needed saving and that's all young Sherlock had needed to know. She told everyone how Sherlock had been her favorite tenant for years, even when he was very troubled, he'd never left her building to live elsewhere and always came back to make sure she was doing alright, even when he was at his worst. When Sherlock met John Mrs. Hudson said it was like seeing sunshine break out after a long storm. That's what Sherlock's life had been before John, a long dark storm filled with chaos_. John blushed when he looked over at Sherlock and saw the love in the taller man's eyes. Raising Sherlock's hand to his lips again John pressed a thankful kiss to the back of it.

A veteran named Bill Murray got up. He had been sitting at a table filled with tittering young women and he winked cheekily at them as he began to speak. Bill was serious though, the twinkle in his eye subsiding when he spoke of the day John had saved Bill's life and nearly lost his own. _John had gone out like a light when he'd learned he was being invalided out of the army, and that he'd never be a surgeon again. Bill had tried to keep in touch with John but it was never the same. John was a shadow, a husk. It wasn't until six months after John had returned to London that Bill managed to see his faded friend again. Bill had been pleasantly relieved. John was alive, really alive. The light had come back on. John had purpose and meaning again. It was because of a friend he had made, a mad-scientist of all things, some crazy man with a weird name, Sherlock Holmes_. Bill raised his glass to Sherlock, “You saved his life mate. Thanks.”

Sherlock was stunned. John sat beside him looking straight ahead. _Sherlock recalled that first day, that moment they'd met. He'd felt their connection then, that frisson of recognition that told Sherlock that he'd finally met the one, his only, that perfect someone made just for him. John's life before Sherlock was mostly a closed book because even if people didn't believe it Sherlock respected John's privacy. Not his possessions, that was entirely different. Sherlock respected the privacy of John's mind. The memories John chose to share or the feelings he chose to have, Sherlock wanted all of that to be freely given to him, not pried out unwillingly_. Sherlock turned and tugged John's arm to make him look, “That was the best day of my life John.”

John heard Sherlock's words and knew exactly what he was thinking about _. It had only taken a moment, that first glance, that fleeting touch, and John had been reawakened. Sherlock had brought everything shattered in John right back together in a roar of existence, filled his world with excitement and color._ “Mine too Sherlock. The very best.” Their hands clutched at the other as their eyes locked. _They both could feel it, that spark. That heat._ Both men knew only the other could trigger it, that the man in front of them was the only person for them. Love shone from both their faces as the world began to recede again.

Greg took care of that by telling everyone of the night previous. Guests were laughing hysterically as Greg told them about having to chase first one then the other through the streets of London. “It was like a video-game, I swear! The _drama_! The _heartache_! You've never seen wedding jitters like _these_ two blokes.” Sherlock and John both sat there red-faced and squirming slightly as Greg completely outed them, even throwing in the _wretched_ kisses! _Everyone knew! How horrific_. Sherlock and John burned with shame.

The guests were laughing. Fond looks were being directed toward John and Sherlock. _People were amused at the pain both men had suffered, laughing at the blows that had nearly crippled their relationship beyond repair. Sherlock couldn't take it anymore_. Standing straight up Sherlock dragged a very surprised John right out of the room and down the corridor.

Sherlock didn't speak as he hunted for a private space. Finally he came across a small conference room with a lock on the door. He pulled John inside and locked it. “John, I'm so sorry. I'm a fool. I almost ruined everything last night.”

“Sherlock _no!_ It's my fault. I was a prat, and _I_ made everything go so wrong!” Both men reached for the other and wrapped their arms tight. The hug was fierce, all encompassing. John's ear was pressed to Sherlock's neck and Sherlock buried his face in John's hair. They breathed each other in.

Breaking apart they searched each other's eyes, “Forgive me.” they said at the same time. A small laugh and then they were grinning at one another.

“I'm an idiot.” declared John.

Sherlock smiled even more. “I'm an idiot too. I guess we _are_ made for one another.”

“I guess we are. I'm glad I married you.” Their lips met and for a long moment both men were filled with almost bitter-sweet pain as all their worries and frustrations slowly ebbed away. Finally John pulled away. He looked ashamed. “ _The girl_. That was just a spur of the moment thing. They were asking for kisses, for some collection they had. I did it impulsively. I'm so sorry I betrayed you but after what I'd seen, I....” John couldn't continue.

“I _wasn't_ cheating on you John. Yes, I admit to trying to run away, and I'm sorry for that but I wasn't cheating. I was just dancing and having drinks. I was trying to calm down and that man came up and kissed me just as you got there. I did hit him though, but his friend got me in the eye before I could run after you.” John looked up at Sherlock's face. _Sure enough he saw the swelling over his brow, cleverly concealed with makeup. John felt worse than ever_.

“Oh god! _I'm_ the cheater! I'm so sorry Sherlock! Even worse, _I am a massive prick!_ There you were, _being molested right in front of me_ and I just _left_ you there! What if something worse had happened after I ran off? _There were two of them!_ ” John hated himself. _How could Sherlock rely on someone who didn't believe in him, didn't know when he was needed, who did everything as backwards as he could the way John did?_ John had just ruined Sherlock's life by chaining him to a dead weight like _John Hamish Watson._

“I think we're both guilty of seeing and not observing, John. I didn't see that all you wanted was a milestone in our lives together. All I focused on was that I wasn't getting what I wanted, that I believed, that I _still_ believe you are getting the worst of this marriage. I'm not a good man. I'm immature, reckless, jealous, needy, emotionally stunted, and wrong-headed. I don't know anything about how to deal with my feelings with the one person in the world who understand both myself _and_ emotions! You are warm and filled with passion. You deserve everything you've ever worked for, a proper family, children, _a home_.”

John smiled up at Sherlock. Sherlock's pale cheeks were faintly flushed as he spoke. Sincerity rang in every word. John kissed Sherlock's mouth silent. “ _You_ are my home. _You_ are my family. Believe me when I say I don't need _children_ while I've got you. What about me? I'm stubborn, regimented, over-protective, smothering, old-fashioned, boring, and pretty much broken. You've married an old worn-out man. You are a raging flame in a dark world and even when it burns me I can't stop trying to get closer to you.”

“I _like_ being smothered by you. You take care of me and I've grown to depend on it.” Sherlock kissed John's cheek softly.

“I'm glad because I don't see me stopping any time soon. In fact, it could get a whole lot worse. How do you feel about being spoon-fed?” both men chuckled and hugged once more. John tilted his head back and Sherlock pressed another warm kiss to his mouth.

“How do you feel about one day adopting a child? Or having a baby through a surrogate?” John was flabbergasted. Sherlock smiled gently down at his husband. “I'm serious John. Not now, sometime in the future when we're both ready. I just want you to know that I am very open to the idea of raising a child or children if you want. I feel we have a lot to offer a young person. We can still do The Work and have little ones. Other parents have careers, why shouldn't we?”

“We almost broke up only a few hours ago and now you're talking children. My head is spinning.” _It was._ John leaned back against a wall and closed his eyes. Sherlock pressed his body against John's and held him close. John let his head fall forward to rest on Sherlock's chest and just breathed for a minute. When he felt able John opened his eyes and looked up at Sherlock. “I want everything with you Sherlock. When we're ready then.”

They heard stringed quartet beginning to play a warm-up. “Oh god. The first dance!” They grabbed each other's hands and raced back to the banquet room. Mycroft and Greg were smirking at them but a quick check showed that neither man was particularly rumpled or showing any overt signs of inappropriate behavior. Sherlock extended his arm and John took it. Leading his husband to the center of the now clear dance floor both men paused and waited for the song to begin.

Sherlock had composed this piece himself, taking only a single night of feverish writing to complete it. Mycroft had found the small stringed quartet who managed to learn the piece in time for the wedding. It began with a cacophony of sounds, rough sawing of strings until one at a time each instrument claimed its place in a growing harmony. The men danced.

The song began simply, two main lines that existed separate but complimentary to one another. The twin harmonies gradually wound together until they formed an excited melody filled with laughter. A dark tone began to run through the piece, a disharmony that twanged almost painfully, each instrument dropping away until only there were two separate melodies once again, both filled with yearning. Suddenly the melodies merged and the harmony became profound once more. The song became triumphant, filled with love and vitality. Sherlock and John danced back and forth across the floor, their hearts measuring the beat of their steps as they followed the music which spelled out their lives.

Sherlock had called it _221 B_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't resist the luuuuuuurv.


	6. 221 B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding is done. The reception is over. What time do you think it is?

They were _finally_ alone. The wedding and reception were behind them now and it was just the two of them. After a lot of debate it had been decided to send Mrs. Hudson away on vacation and to spend their honeymoon right there on Baker Street. She was now winging her way to Las Vegas, fulfilling a lifelong dream to gamble till the dawn and see enough floor shows to keep her in gossip with Mrs. Turner for years. Neither John nor Sherlock were interested in the hassle of traveling and being strange places. They wanted what they always wanted, just to be together. Now more than ever it seemed urgent to root themselves in the familiar, to take comfort in their private retreat.

While they had been gone that day Mycroft had arranged for someone to come into the flat, cleaned it from top to bottom, stock the cupboards, replace their dank refrigerator and fill it as well with the couple's favorite foods. There was a healthy supply of alcohol if they chose to indulge and the fireplace had been lit in advance. The bathroom and bedroom were both equipped with fresh fluffy towels, a plenitude of candles and incense. It was all incredibly romantic. _John wasn't ready for all of that. He felt like things had only been partially resolved today. There were still exposed feelings between them, hurts that needed tending before they grew infected and spread. John needed to find out how Sherlock really felt now that they weren't in the middle of an emotionally charged crowd of people. Here in their flat on Baker Street John would learn the truth and see if this marriage could even work_.

Sherlock was nervous. _The dance had left him almost high but as soon as he'd set foot on the first step of their staircase Sherlock's bliss had drained entirely away._ Despite their earlier jokes and more recent problems both men took each other's hand and stepped across the threshold at the same time. Neither man said a word, just kissing one another tenderly and exchanging searching looks.

Sherlock didn't know what to say _. He had betrayed John, not with another person, that had been a fluke, no, Sherlock had betrayed John's trust, his faith that he could count on Sherlock no matter what. Trust was a sticky issue with John. He didn't have much of it. Once it was damaged John very rarely found it within himself to allow trust to grow with someone again. What was Sherlock to do as he spent the rest of his days with a man who felt that his own husband was just waiting for another opportunity to disappoint him?_

John looked at his new husband, admiring his looks. The matching suits were not bad, it actually sort of felt nice to look a bit like Sherlock. John would never be tall and elegant but he cut a sharp figure when he was done up, even if it had taken one of the most hard-to-retain tailors in London to do the work. Sherlock looked....well, he looked delicious. _How could John ever make things up to Sherlock? How could they begin this marriage if Sherlock felt that John would abandon him, that John wouldn't believe him, that John wouldn't even listen to him?_ It was so wrong and John was filled with remorse.

Sherlock looked down at John. He looked so debonair in his suit but Sherlock found himself craving John in his normal clothes. Since John had begun to work for the British Government he'd been required to wear a suit more but that wasn't the John Sherlock had fallen in love with. No, Sherlock had fallen in love with the worn out jeans, scuffed shoes and almost miraculously horrible jumper collection. Sherlock was suddenly proud of John in his suit though. _John had been brassy enough to wear the tie pin which had been a mocking gift from Sherlock who knew perfectly well that John didn't wear ties normally_. John had thrown that back in his face today by carrying off his suit and tie pin with aplomb. _John really was_ remarkable.

John looked over at Sherlock. “Can we shower and change? I want to relax. Today has been a lot.” Sherlock nearly sighed with relief. He wanted to go to bed with John but he just didn't feel ready for it right then. Sherlock felt drained and tired. He still needed to talk to John, to make sure John forgave him properly, that John understood clearly that Sherlock could be depended upon to stay with him forever.

“That sounds acceptable John.” They retired to their bedroom and helped each other out of their wedding clothes. Once the outfits were safely tucked away both men just picked up their robes and padded naked to the bathroom. Once the stall was steamy and warm they stepped in together and held one another under the soothing spray. John had been worried that Sherlock would refuse to come with him and Sherlock had been anxious that John might want to shower alone. Both men were grateful as they leaned against one another and found comfort.

They used Sherlock's products again, washing each other carefully. They nearly always showered together now and had developed a rhythm to it so it wasn't long before they were done. Rinsing each other carefully they stepped out and wordlessly dried each other off. Sherlock's stomach grumbled. He hadn't eaten for well over a day. He could normally go for days without eating but since John had been feeding him regularly Sherlock's body had discovered how to feel hungry once again. John frown at Sherlock's flat belly as if it had offended him. “Come on love, you need food. I do too. I haven't eaten since this morning.”

They hadn't had a bite of their wedding dinner, not even a crumb of the cake. Sherlock was very hungry now so they pulled on their robes and slippers. The kitchen was warm and cozy. John put a kettle on for tea and began rummaging through their new _better_ still-currently-body-part-free fridge for something to eat. There were pre-made platters of cold-cuts and cheeses so John pulled that out. He made the tea and got Sherlock to sit at the table. Setting out the platter John finally sank into his usual chair. They stared at the food.

Sherlock reached out and made a tiny sandwich out of crackers, cold cuts and a bit of cheese. He held it up in front of John. “You first.” John looked at the mouthful of food being presented to him. Opening his mouth he let Sherlock pop it in. It was tasty and John was suddenly starving. He made one and with a smile presented it to Sherlock. His husband graciously opened his mouth and with a small contented sigh John fed him _. It was so nice. Simple. Easy. Just the two of them sitting in their home taking care of one another._ They relaxed.

Eventually the platter was bare and their teacups were empty. John felt better than he had all day. Sherlock got up and looked through all the things now on the counter. “Wine?” John shrugged his shoulders. Why not? Sherlock opened a bottle after reading the labels and poured them each a glass. Retiring to the living room they slouched on the sofa in front of the fire and sighed. This day had taken everything out of them.

Sherlock suddenly turned to John, his face worried and fretful. “You _can_ count on me John. I want you to know that. I love you and I do want to be there for you. I hope you can trust me again someday.” Sherlock was very anxious sounding but John was confused.

“Why wouldn't I trust you now? I know I can count on you. You've never given me reason not to.” Now Sherlock was confused. _Had the same night happened to them? Hadn't he betrayed John dreadfully?_ John furthered Sherlock's confusion. “It's me that has to ask for your trust back. I never want you to feel alone, like you've got nowhere to go or no one to turn to. I'll always be there for you Sherlock, always.”

 _Trust issues, abandonment issues. Both men were very aware of their lover's fears._ They stared at one another, realization dawning. They blinked. Suddenly both men were roaring with laughter, all the tension of the last twenty four hours completely dissipating. “Oh _god_ Sherlock! I've been tearing myself apart. You?”

“John I can honestly tell you I have never spent so much time introspectively examining every part of our entire existence. I was utterly convinced you didn't trust me anymore. Am I wrong?” John took Sherlock's hand and kissed it hard.

“You are very wrong. I trust you more than any person in the world. I always have and I've never stopped.” Sherlock was very choked up by this. He _knew_ John was including the time Sherlock had faked his demise. _John had kept faith with a dead man because the love in his heart was so strong. Sherlock felt humbled by the very large gift John was giving him_. John looked at Sherlock, his own confession to make. “I've been worried sick that you were unhappy with me, that I'm not enough for you. I thought that's why you needed to run. That what I could offer you wasn't nearly enough.”

“Maybe I've given you that impression because I'm so very greedy. No matter how much you give me I'm always going to want more because I'm selfish. I've told you this. I love you John. You are absolutely perfect for me. Everything about you is perfect for me.” Sherlock smiled over to his husband. John raised an eyebrow.

“I'm short. I'm small.” John said bluntly cutting right to the heart of his issue. He couldn't take any more emotional upheaval. He was just going to get everything right out there and deal with the consequences.

“Yes, you are. Does that matter?” Sherlock looked John over. _John wasn't the tallest man in the world but that hadn't stopped him from being bloody fantastic. In fact John was scrumptious, pocket-sized, and yummy, like a honey-coated confection_. Sherlock's gaze became appraising.

“I'm more than a little concerned this fact might one day be unsatisfying for you.” Sherlock pondered John's words for a minute. _How in the world would Sherlock fail to be satisfied by John? John did things to Sherlock that the genius hadn't known were even physically possible. How could John feel insecure about that?_ Still, it was the only area John seemed to have continued insecurities about so Sherlock ventured an educated guess.

“You mean sex?” he tendered tentatively. He was struggling to understand how John could ever perceive himself as unsatisfactory to Sherlock. Sherlock was _mad_ for him when normally he didn't give a fig for anyone. _John was perfect, hadn't he told him that several times already?_ When John nodded reluctantly Sherlock gave an exasperated huff. “John Watson, you really are an idiot. You are the _only_ person I have ever met in forty years of life that has even slightly interested me. Believe me when I tell you it was a _physical_ attraction from the very first. You are an exceptional person, and I loved you for years, well before we _ever_ had sex. Intercourse with you is more than satisfying. It's life-changing. I'm not concerned with the _size_ of your penis. I've never known anything different, and it all seems to fit just right, so what is the problem exactly? I'll never try another. Is it me? Am I too big, too ungainly? I do try not to loom. Am I awkward with you in bed? Is that it?”

John was a little overwhelmed by Sherlock's response. The man seemed genuinely confused about John's concerns. Suddenly John felt warm all over. He turned Sherlock on _exclusively_ , small man or not. Only _he_ had the power to make Sherlock crave another touch, another embrace. John took Sherlock's hand and brought it to his cheek, pressing his hand there. “Your grace always leaves me breathless Sherlock. You aren't awkward, you're stunning both to look at and to be with. I'm very relieved to hear that I satisfy you. You most certainly satisfy me.” _Oh god, did he ever!_

“I do? Even though I'm not a woman?” this was Sherlock's biggest worry. _He could never truly be a woman no matter how hard he tried. Sherlock was a man and that's all there was to it._ _John wasn't gay! He still wasn't gay even though he had married a man._ John looked entirely surprised.

“Why the fuck would I want you to be a woman?” he asked, sounding very confused. John shook his head. “Sherlock I'm not interested in women, not anymore. I'm not interested in men. I never have been. The only person on the face of this whole big earth I am interested in is _you_. Last night I was in a bar filled with women who made it very plain they were all completely available. I drank my drink and sat there thinking of you. If I hadn't been so mad and so stupid I would have just left when my beer was done. Instead everything happened the way it happened and I almost lost you and for what? Nerves? I can't believe how close we were to never being together again.

Sherlock _could_ all of a sudden. He got dizzy and clutched at John when he suddenly saw his life as it would be without John by his side. _Dark_ was only one way to describe it. _Short_ and _bitter_ would be other appropriate ways. “John!” Sherlock's voice was raspy, “Promise we'll always be together. I can't live without you. I'm not brave like you. I couldn't do it.”

“I promise Sherlock. Nothing will ever be more important to me than you. I'd give up everything in the world before I'd risk losing you. I swear it.” John kissed Sherlock then. The spark that had lit during the reception and that had grown into a small warm flame during the dance now flared once again, both men mouthed each other, taking in the taste of the other man almost desperately as they began their communion.

John pushed Sherlock back and climbed into his lap, his knees on either side of Sherlock's hips. Sherlock groaned as John's hard warm body pressed against his. John slid his hand behind Sherlock's head and cupped him close before kissing Sherlock with a thoroughness that left both men breathless. Sherlock's voice throbbed once more, rich with feeling, “I love you John Watson.”

“I love you Sherlock Holmes.” John couldn't stop kissing Sherlock. _His lips needed to taste every bit of his husband, to claim him as his own fully and for forever_. John began to kiss each feature reverently, each press of his lips a promise of eternity. Sherlock's body was electrified each time John touched him and soon each benediction was followed by a shuddery gasp. John's brows knitted together as he felt the love in his heart spike and swell with every beat it took. He wanted to weep tears of joy that this man, this insane mess of near catastrophic genius was his to have and hold until the end of time. _Who else in the world was lucky enough to have a man made of as many parts as the incomparable Sherlock Holmes?_

Sherlock was awash in feelings he could barely comprehend. He had thought he had experienced the measure of John's love, that together they had explored the length and breadth of their feelings for one another in the weeks since their first night. Once again Sherlock Holmes discovered that there was yet _more_ to John Watson. Right now he knew that John, wonderful sweet caring John, had held himself back because Sherlock wasn't ready yet. Beautiful magnificent noble John who was now beginning to show Sherlock how many more surprises there were left to experience.

A _lifetime's_ worth.

Sherlock's back arched and he gasped loudly. “John! Please!” _It was too much, all far too much. Sherlock needed to take it in, absorb it, to try to understand it before it destroyed him._ John pulled away and stood in front of Sherlock, his chest heaving and his eyes glittering darkly. Sherlock drew in a long ragged breath and tried to keep himself from finishing just from the sight of his lover. “Take me to bed John.”

“Oh god yes.”

John drew Sherlock up from the sofa and led him tenderly to their bedroom. He took a moment and lit a smattering of candles, ignoring the incense. Sherlock stood by the bed and felt even more innocent than he had their first night together as he shed his robe. John was moving differently. His motions were fluid, contained. _No. Restrained. John was a hunter and Sherlock the prey. John was once again holding himself back until all was ready. In a few short moments Sherlock would be John's to have, any way he wished._ When John let his robe fall to the floor Sherlock almost spent himself once again.

Both men were shamelessly erect, their bodies uninterested in hiding the attraction between them. It sparked once again, and electric zap of sexual tension that threatened to overwhelm the younger man again and again. Sherlock whimpered. “Don't worry love. I have faith in you.” John's voice was heavy with desire, thick with arousal. What did he have faith in exactly? John answered him. “I'm going to make you mine Sherlock. Entirely.”

Sherlock whimpered again. _John was practically radiating dominant vibrations_. Sherlock's knees felt weak and suddenly he was so glad John was a small man. _If he had been of a height with Sherlock there was no way in heaven or earth that Sherlock could survive the onslaught._ He couldn't take it a second longer and dropped to the mattress in a boneless heap. John smiled and Sherlock shivered.

John was utterly ruthless. He kissed Sherlock in slow maddening detail, dragging his mouth over every inch of Sherlock's long body, everywhere except where Sherlock was nearly expiring for John to go. John ignored that bit of Sherlock completely. Sherlock was going insane. John mouthed his way up and down each limb, even licking his way across Sherlock's armpits which honestly made Sherlock's whole body twist unexpectedly. John found and kissed every freckle, every mole, every scar, every _hair_ he could find. John had been serious. He was claiming every bit of Sherlock he could.

When he came to Sherlock's neck he became wilder. “Mine.” he growled softly as he bit down hard. Sherlock jerked in pained shock. The younger man realized this was the same spot where the stranger had caressed him, that John was erasing this unwanted rival's touch and marking Sherlock blatantly. _John was magnificent_.

Small bruises began to bloom here and there as John made his claim visual. Sherlock's neck bore the heaviest cluster of marks but no part of his body was spared. Even the sensitive inner parts of his arm had purpling bruises scattered along them. Sherlock was nearly weeping now. His cock was hard and aching, his belly a mess of pre-cum that had dripped endlessly the entire time John had been torturing him. He realized he had been making the strangest sounds, almost sobs as John teased and tasted him.

“Please John, if you love me, please, please let me come!” Sherlock could feel tears spill out of his eyes. John didn't hesitate. His head went down and he took Sherlock in completely. Sherlock's mind blanked out. He shuddered from head to toe as he came in John's mouth. _It almost hurt, the pleasure sharp and vicious. For a few blissful moments everything ceased._ When John's head pulled back Sherlock opened his eyes enough to see John lick his lips slowly as if savoring the flavors there. Desire flooded through Sherlock's body even though his orgasm was still washing through him. The relief John had just given him was fleeting. _They weren't done. Not nearly done enough_.

Sherlock pounced. He had John on his back in a trice, pressing heated kisses over John's broad strong chest. “I love you John. So much. So very much.” muttered Sherlock over and over. He was overtaken with a desire to claim John as John had claimed him. “There isn't a moment, not one single second of the day when you aren't in my thoughts. Every minute of every hour are treasures because you share my life.”

Those words triggered another passionate bout of teeth clashing kisses where tongues tangled and everything became delightfully messy. Sherlock felt a pressure on his shoulder blades and discovered that he was on his back once again but this time John was kneeing his thighs wide open. Sherlock twisted enough to be able to paw into the bedside drawer to yank out the bottle of lube they kept there. Catching John's eye Sherlock deliberately dribbled some on his own fingers before he reached down.

John groaned so deeply Sherlock almost couldn't hear him. Sherlock imagined that John's fingers were aching to touch him like this so Sherlock began to tease his husband. The tips of his fingers coaxed the small bud to relax and open, swirling over the puckered flesh to make it shine invitingly. As Sherlock fitted one long finger into himself John groaned again, his hips rolling reflexively. His eyes were locked on Sherlock's fingers.

John kept his hands tight against his thighs. He knew if he touched himself even briefly that he would be finished with no hope of recovery any time soon. Sherlock was wanton again. He'd made that quicksilver transformation from _shy flower_ to _brazen lover_ and John wasn't about to waste the experience. A second finger joined the first and Sherlock was moaning rhythmically under his breath as he worked himself open for John. John quivered with excitement.

By the time Sherlock's third finger was finally moving easily in and out of his body both men were almost whining with desire. Sherlock spread his legs as wide as he could as his pulled his fingers slowly from himself. John took up the bottle of lube and hissed as he coated himself. “Hard John. I want it _hard_.”

John couldn't wait anymore and Sherlock had just given him the okay. Settling himself between his husband's pale thighs John lined himself up. Taking a long deep breath John paused for only a moment then pushed in suddenly. Sherlock cried loudly into air as his back arched. His cock was thick and hard again, his earlier release already forgotten. John almost came as Sherlock's tight heat swallowed him up. He felt the almost painful clench of Sherlock's body as John forced himself into it, both men were gasping and shaking as they united.

It was long hot and sweaty in the bed. John's body moved fast and steadily over Sherlock's. The room was silent except for the slapping of flesh on flesh, the wet sloppy squelch of the lubricant easing the way becoming one of the most arousing sounds Sherlock had ever heard. Their bellies slapped together as John moved swiftly and Sherlock could feel his body growing tighter, hotter.

John was moaning softly. He sounded almost like he was in pain as he panted and gasped against Sherlock. Sherlock's body had never seemed so welcoming. John could feel his penis being taken in hungrily, felt Sherlock's body reacting to his, knew that only he could make Sherlock respond mindlessly the way he was. Suddenly Sherlock's arms and legs were caging John. The taller man did it instinctively when he was close to a massive orgasm and John just about lost it when Sherlock began panting out John's name in a nearly hysterical litany. Their bodies drove together, trying to move faster, trying to plunge deeper.

Sherlock realized this was just a beginning. No matter what they did today there would be a tomorrow, a day after that, another day after that all stringing together in an unbroken line until the days ran out. The love they made today would echo through the years and be joined by other times they made love and all of it would wind together and become stronger, more powerful.

John felt Sherlock yield hungrily beneath him, felt Sherlock's body begin to grow tighter. He knew that this moment was just one of many moments left for them, that every single day would bring them closer, drive them apart and then bring them closer again. Their love wasn't easy but then it was never meant to be easy for a man who was a soldier born who loved a man who was a walking battlefield. The fight is what kept them strong, kept them alive, kept them going.

John lay fully on Sherlock, their mouths close together as they struggled to breath. Their bodies slid against one another slickly, Sherlock's death grip on John the only reason they hadn't slipped apart. Both men were sobbing out their pleasure mindlessly, howling out their lust for one another, shouting their exultation at their unity.

When the moment came for both of them the world went static and whited out. For both men all sound ceased, all sight failed, all the world simply _was not_. In that glorious moment when their bodies shook and spasmed, as strips of white splashed on hard bellies and spilled into willing bodies John and Sherlock flew gloriously high above the rest of mankind, wrapped in a love so huge that it almost wasn't love anymore but what else could you call it?

From their first meeting at the morgue at St Bart all the way to the moment they now shared both Sherlock and John had been on a path together. They would _suffer_. They would _bleed_. They would weep and rail against it. They would argue and fight. They would share angry silences and bitter looks. They would risk everything to help the other. They would lay down their lives over and over. They would walk hand in hand to face any war. They would push their way past barriers and do things normal people didn't do because _they weren't_ _normal_. They never had been. How could someone normal love Sherlock Holmes? How could Sherlock Holmes love someone normal? It didn't work. Everything strange or unseemly, everything difficult or messy, everything everyone everywhere else wasn't able to deal with was something both men found irresistible in the other. What would you call that? If you asked Sherlock or John both of them would give you the exact same answer.

_Perfection._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for this round my lovies, thanks so much for following along. I shall of course be continuing my fantastical exploration of John and Sherlock via my other tales. Perhaps if there is another holiday inspired story I will add another installment to this series.


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